


Harold, the NPC

by lunarlover98



Series: Harold the NPC [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls Online, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Oblivion (2013), Original Work, elder - Fandom, npc - Fandom
Genre: Adventure, Dragonborn - Freeform, Falkreath, Fus Ro Dah, Greybeards - Freeform, High Hrothgar, Journey, Martha - Freeform, NPC - Freeform, Original Character - Freeform, Skyrim - Freeform, Whiterun, harold - Freeform, jarl - Freeform, shout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29501037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarlover98/pseuds/lunarlover98
Summary: Harold is an NPC living in the Elder Scrolls world.  However, he doesn't know what an NPC is.  All he knows is he has a family to take care of, and he is tired of people putting buckets over his head while they loot his shop and home.
Series: Harold the NPC [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166999
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. Harold sets off

It was the third time in a single week an adventurer had come in and stuck a bucket over his head. The bucket was barely in their hands, and their tongues stuck out as they concentrated, making sure the bucket fit on his head just right. 

It was driving him crazy. But every time he tried to yank the bucket off of his head, it was as though some mysterious force was keeping his arms pinned at his sides, even as he said the words “can I help yah” over and over again. Help them? How could he help them when he couldn’t see anything inside his own shop?

And every time he managed to get the simple wooden bucket off, his inventory was missing. Could he prove that the adventurer took it? No. Did he know it had happened? Yes. It frustrated him, drove him mad, and all he wanted to do was make it stop.

Sighing, he put a hand on the wooden door in front of him, and took a deep breath. Whatever had happened at work today, he had promised Martha, his loving wife of ten years, he wouldn’t bring work home with him.

He pushed the door open to find her stirring the pot on the open flame, her hair tied into a messy bun at the top of her head. “Harold!” she beamed at him as she turned her neck ever so slightly, happy to see him. “How was work today?”

“It was lovely dear.”

“Did you sell anything?” he ground his teeth against each other, unable to stop the impulsive movement. 

“Some things disappeared off the shelf alright.” He muttered as he walked to the back of the house, their bedroom of sorts, even if it was only behind a simple divider. “What are we having for dinner?” He had changed into the only other thin worn tunic he had, but it held a simple steady comfort inside of it.

“Carrot soup.” He sat down at the table as she ladled the soup into bowls when it happened. Their front door was shoved open, and a terrifying lizard in bright purple nightmare armor barged into their house, sword drawn, in a crouched creeping stance. 

Harold wanted to protest, wanted to demand that the stranger get out of their house immediately. Instead, he found himself ladling soup into his mouth, the flavor satisfying on his tongue. And then it happened. Buckets appeared out of nowhere, as though there was a pouch that could fit anything on the adventurer’s hip. 

Harold could see it was going to happen, could see the look of concentration and intensity on the adventurer’s face. Then the bucket was over his head, and all he could do was helplessly spoon more carrot soup up to the mouth that was now covered by the shield of wood.

As he continued to ladle soup to his mouth, Harold heard the steady clack of potion bottles, cutlery, and coin. He heard the loud thumps of the cheese wheels and dried boar meat they had meticulously created drop to the floor.

Then the bucket was off his head, was off Martha’s head, and the adventurer in nightmare armor was out the door, leaving them not only confused, but poorer.

“What do you think your day will be like at the shop tomorrow Harold?” Martha asked suddenly, her eyes glossy and glazed as she looked up.

“Martha? Didn’t you see that?”

“See what dear?” surely, she couldn’t be oblivious to what had happened. Surely, she had seen the adventurer, had heard the clinking as things had been stolen. He continued to stare at her as she swallowed another spoonful of soup. “What do you think of the soup?”

“its excellent.” He muttered softly, unable to continue his line of questioning, sensing it was clear she had no idea what he was talking about.

As the sun started to set, Harold crawled into bed next to his wife, his mind replaying the days events, reliving the buckets on his head and his helplessness to do anything about it. When Martha’s snores were a soft music in his ear, he untucked the blankets from around himself, and stood. 

Or at least tried too. It was like his body was laying in a puddle of hardened honey, his limps felt heavy and unyielding as he tried to get up, tried to force himself out of the bed. His eyes were heavy, weaving a convincing tale of slumber that part of him wanted to listen too.

He continued to try to move, to push his arms outside of the barrier of the hardened honeyed bed, concentrated as hard as he could until finally, a pinky finger moved. The first movement was the hardest, and soon he was out of the bed, standing. 

Martha looked so peaceful as she slept, her hair finally down from its sloppy bun, her mouth curved in a soft smile. He was setting off tonight to see the Jarl. He had a family to take care of, a wife that deserved more than things constantly getting stolen.

In his bag, he packed some dried meats, a skin of water, and some potions. On his hip he strapped his great great, great, grandfather’s sword, a weapon that had not seen battle since the last great war. Around his shoulders he tucked the rabbit fur cloak he had made himself when he was a boy, and with one last look at his small house, he walked out the front door.


	2. Harold is a Dragonborn?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold sets off to meet the Jarl, and runs into a "minor" issue.

With every foot step he took he groaned. The simple leather boots he wore, and had owned for as long as he had been with Martha, were not cut out for long paths. But still, he was determined to see the Jarl in Whiterun. Jarl Balgruuf had promised when he had taken the position that any of his people could always come to him with issues. Could always plead their case if there was a wrong that needed righting.

On his high horse of righteousness, Harold continued forward, one aching footstep after the other. As he looked down for a brief moment, he noticed the laces on his leather boots had come undone. Sighing he unshouldered his pack and bent down, making sure he tied the laces extra tight. 

While he tied the laces, he missed the shadow that flew above him, missed the way the sunlight was blocked out for a moment. Missed the way heavy wings flapped to keep a body high up in the sky. He simply saw a shadow as he righted himself, putting his hand above his eyes to try and see what had happened.

Shrugging his shoulders he continued on. One step turned into two, two steps turned into three, and three steps turned into a startled yelp as he heard the heavy clack of armor running at him, soldiers brandishing blades and bows running at rapid paces, screaming terrifying battle cries. 

His pack flew to the ground even as his aching feet stirred and raced to the nearby watchtower, prepared to hide inside of it until the guards were away.

When he was tucked safely inside, when only his nose and worried eyes could peek out of an uncovered window, did Harold attempt to look up again.

Above the still screaming soldiers flew the largest bird Harold had ever screen. It screeched loudly, its wings flapping wildly, and then it dove. The closer to the ground it got, the bigger it got, until a monster the size of the inn in Riverwood stood before them. Its eyes were black, its wingspan large enough that a quick flap sent any loose scraps of grass flying. When it opened its mouth again, it wasn’t to screech, but to instead breath fire hotter than Harold had ever felt before. 

Even behind a stone wall his eyes brows felt singed.

Then, he saw him. It was the Lizard in purple nightmare amour, brandishing a sword glowing with an eerie green flame. He stood right in front of the flames being blown, and for a second Harold saw something above his head, a small red bar that rapidly depleted.

It was almost gone when the world seemed to freeze around him. The Lizard rooted around in his pocket for a long moment, the monster’s flames surrounding him frozen in times, and then he upheld a potato. Without hesitation he shoved it in his mouth and the red bar above him increased. And then there was another potato, a cheese wheel, a sweet roll, food item after food item crammed into their face until the red bar was once again full.

The lizard sighed, and suddenly the chaos surrounding him resumed, the monsters fire started to deplete the red bar once again.

The lizard however paid no attention, merely slashed his sword quickly across its face. The monster let out one final screech, and then, it thundered to the ground, wings curling around it in death.

As the Lizard went to sheath their weapon, Harold saw it. His mothers pearl necklace hanging out of the Lizards pouch, glinting enticingly in the sunlight. Unable to contain his anger, still feeling the wooden bucket placed atop his head, Harold snapped, storming from his hiding spot.

“You!” he screeched it, his voice much the same as the monsters that had been slain. Harold stormed forward, ignoring the victory shouts of soldiers, ignoring the danger of walking forward.

He ripped the pearl necklace from the Lizards pouch, and thrust his Great, Great, Great grandfathers sword forward, puncturing through the nightmare armor with ease. “DO NOT COME INTO MY HOME AGAIN!” He commanded, as the Lizard fell to its knees. 

Harold turned to walk away, thrilled with the pearl necklace he had retrieved, only to come face to face with a rapidly decomposing corpse. “The DRAGON!” A guard screamed loudly in Harold’s ear. But he couldn’t summon the rage. All he could feel was the horror coursing through him at the magical waves of the dragon before him. The grey matter swirling around it as nothing but bones were left behind.

And then, a golden glow seemed to swarm towards him, moving so swiftly there was no chance to run. The words “A dragon soul has been absorbed” swam in the edges of his vision, even as a shout of nonsense words depicted through the air.

REPORT BACK TO JARL BALGRUUF

The words were white, right in front of his eyes. Report back? How could he report back when he had never been there? The guards around him stared with terrified eyes.

“Are you the Dragonborn?” one asked suddenly. 

Unsure of how to answer, and still clutching the pearl necklace in his hand, Harold turned abruptly and set off towards Whiterun.


	3. Harold Meets the Jarl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold finally meets Jarl Balgruuf, and a few strange things happen.

Harold was ready to nap as his fingers worried the pearl necklace in his pocket. Once the dragon had been slain and he had run away at a frantic pace from the many guards, Whiterun had stood in front of him, with high unyielding walls.

An image of his lovely wife Martha flashed in his mind, steeling his determination and he continued forward. 

His father had told him many tales of Whiterun in his youth, but none had even come close to the splendor of what he saw before him. Large buildings, huge stores, and multiple paths leading to many different areas. 

His eyes absorbed everything he saw as he took tottering baby steps forward, until a voice caught his attention. “We have every right to be here. Besides, we are just looking for a woman. Let us search for her and then we will be on our way.”

Harold’s eyes turned to the left, taking in the strong figures of two men arguing with the guards. “You know you are not welcome here. Leave.”

The arguing man sighed before turning away to leave, but he stopped when he caught Harold’s eye. “You. My name is Alik'r. I am searching for a redguard woman. If you find her, I will be staying close by. Come find me.” 

As he walked away, the words IN MY TIME OF NEED, flashed around the edges of Harold’s vision, and he rubbed his eyes. Why did things like this keep happening? What did it mean?

“I heard you are the dragonborn.” A guard muttered as he walked past, his eyes face forward but his lips almost seemingly curved towards Harold. 

What was happening? This was getting ridiculous! Never before had he seen words on the edge of his vision, or random red bars above peoples heads. Unwilling to be sidetracked, Harold marched forward, determined to meet with Jarl Balgruuf that day.

He stomped into the Jarl’s home at Dragonsreach, his heart hammering at the prospect of being able to finally live a life of piece.

“Ah adventurer. You have returned!” The greeting held excitement and suspicion in it, and it caused Harold to stop dead in his tracks. 

“What do you mean I have returned?” He asked aloud, unable to keep the words inside any longer. 

“what is the status of the dragon?” His question went unanswered, even as a wall of text appeared to Harold’s right.

THE DRAGON IS DEAD. I ABSORBED SOMETHING FROM IT

WHAT WAS THAT SHOUT I HEARD

SAY NOTHING

He had no idea what it meant, no idea what the writing was and so he turned back to the Jarl who was suddenly motionless, head propped on his hand as he leaned in his throne.

“My Jarl, I have come to plead to you to help my wife and I. Constantly we are being robbed by people placing buckets over our heads and we are helpless to stop it.”

It was as though the Jarl was frozen in time, and Harold stared at him waiting, his level of anger and frustration growing. 

After what seemed like fifteen minutes of a staring contest, Harold flung his hands up in frustration, and selected THE DRAGON IS DEAD. I ABSORBED SOMETHING FROM IT. By accident.

“What did you absorb.” The Jarl asked, suddenly moving from his frozen stupor. “It doesn’t matter. The shout you heard was the Greybeards summoning you. You should take the path of 7000 steps and go meet with them. Once you have talked to them, come back to me.”

The sudden movement of the Jarl stopped almost immediately, and with the movements of an aged man he stopped back into his throne, propped his head back upon his hand, and stared blankly ahead.

“Why do I need to take the path of 7000 steps!” Harold asked, trying as har as he could to keep respect deeply in his tone. But the Jarl said nothing, almost as though he couldn’t hear him.

“My Jarl.” Harold asked, only to be met with a monotone _yes?_ Each attempt to talk to the Jarl resulted in the same thing, and Harold was resigned, unsure of what to do, and regretting ever leaving his home.

Sighing in defeat, he turned to leave, prepared to take the path of 7000 steps to meet the Greybeards in the hopes that they might be able to help he and Martha.


	4. Harold and the Path of the 7000 Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold starts the Path of the 7000 Steps to the Greybeards

He stood at the first step gazing upwards, his eyes crinkled in the corners as he squinted. The sun reflecting off of the snow was bright enough that he felt he was going blind, the wind cold enough blowing through his tattered clothing that he thought he would freeze.

Doubt raced across his mind, uncertainty plagued him. And then, he lifted his right foot and placed it on the first step. “Only six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine to go.” He muttered, the words coming out as nothing more than a huff of chilled air.

He counted as he walked, something to keep him sane, something to take his mind off of Martha and how much he missed her. They had moved to the small town, bought a small house, for the simplicity of it. When she had gathered too many herbs while on her evening walks they had discussed thoroughly running a small shop to sell potions and other nick-nacks. Just things to keep them afloat and in the life they wanted.

He had never expected the theft and robbery. Never expected the fear and terror that coursed through his veins every time an unexpected stranger walked into his shop or home, robbed them blind, and he was helpless to stop it.

He had experience fighting. Experience defending his home as a soldier who used to work near Falkreath. The bandits that had come through there, the supposed Dark Brotherhood members that resided near there. And yet in his own home, defending his wife, he was helpless, useless even. 

At step 356 he was ripped out of his own thoughts, his mind torn away from thoughts of his lovely Martha when he heard it. 

The yell.

No, yell was no accurate. The fearsome territorial growl that vibrated through the earth and shook his feet. It had to be the volume of the growl and not fear. He was sure of it.

Harold peered into the snow, his eyes barely adjusting to the way it drifted lazily from the sky when he saw something move. Relief surged through him first. It was a teeny tiny thing, lost in the snow almost as he was. 

And then it moved closer, two legs on the ground, two arms used for support at times. More than two eyes, and fur as white as the snow around them. It growled again and he let out a terrified yelp as he ran. 

Common sense fled him, and instead of turning around and running back down the 356 steps he knew were safe he ran past the troll (for it was a troll upon closer inspection), past the corpses of those who had surely met the troll before him, and up the mountain side.

As he ran the growling grew fainter, his breathing grew heavier, and he never stopped counting the number of steps. “six” huff of breath “forty” puff of breath “three.” Groan as he collapsed knee first into the snow. He hadn’t even reached a thousand and already his body was tired, his legs unwilling to go further. 

He wanted to lay in the snow, face first, and breathe in the cold. Let it suffocate him until he no longer had any concerns. 

With a deep and mournful sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and continued onward. He could give up, could let it all go and never finish his quest. But then Martha would be left alone to fend for herself, wondering where he went. 

And so he continued traipsing up the mountain, counting each step along the path as he went, until finally…..

He saw it. The building was huge, stone layered upon stone with grand windows and doors. The building was magnificent, awe inspiring, wonderful.

And the path of 7000 steps was a complete and utter sham. He had only gone 742 steps up the cliffside of a mountain. 


	5. Harold meets the Greybeards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold has climbed the path of the 7000 steps, and is now meeting the greybeards.

His breath still puffed out in white clouds as he slammed his fist against the heavy wooden door.

As he waited, he rubbed his hands against one another for warmth, and tried to figure out how the doors had been carried up the mountain. They looked heavy and old, with each door being one solid piece. Just as he reached his newly warmed fingers up to touch the carved and aged wood, it opened.

“Come in.” It was said pleasantly enough, but was more of a command than anything else and Harold walked in slowly, one cautious footstep after another.

As Harold walked into the room, the vastness and openness of it not lost on him, a man in an intricate grey cloak, and a long silver beard walked forward. “So… a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.” 

Confused, bewildered, Harold started to ask what the mans name was, when it appeared in white letters before him. Even as the name appeared, Arngeir, so did two options in white at the side of the screen.

He was just as baffled as he had been when it had happened with the Jarl. Just as confused as to what the options were appearing for. But rather than argue, rather than ask question after question, Harold chose to instead study the options and pick one. 

While he debated internally about what to pick, he noticed that Arngeir did not move, did not blink, and did not appear to breathe. No, instead he stood staring, unflinchingly. Harold turned his head ever so slowly to gaze around the room, and noticed that the other men still roamed around the rooms, but it seemed almost as though it was a predetermined path. They walked aimlessly, eyes empty, mouths seemingly sewn shut.

Unsure and slightly terrified, Harold raised a hand and gestured at one of the two options he had been presented.

He didn’t know what he had selected, only knew Arngeir continued speaking. “We will see if you truly have the gift. Come Dragonborn, let us have a taste of your voice.”

He stood truly dumbstruck. _Let us have a taste of your voice?_ The words splintered through his head as he stared at them with narrowed eyes, head cocked ever so slightly to the left.

“Shout for us. Then we may have time for questions.” Arngeir sounded far away, distant, and Harold was nothing but confused. 

“What do you mean shout for you? You want me to just scream at you?” 

“Shout for us. Then we may have time for questions.” Harold stared at him, even growing so bold as to wave a hand in front of Arngeir’s face to try and invoke a reaction. But nothing happened except the patient repeat of “Shout for us. Then we may have time for questions.”

Harold scrubbed a hand over his face, before closing his eyes and applying pressure to them with his fingers. “Shout at you?” Harold asked aloud, not even contemplating that they so called greybeards would even bother to give him an answer.

“What do I shout at you?” He continued to ponder aloud as his feet carried him around the room. He picked up items and put them down, studying them dispassionately as he tried to reason through their request. 

It sounded simple. Sounded as though they merely wanted him to open his mouth and scream. But other than looking ridiculous, Harold didn’t think that was what they wanted.

Time barely seemed to pass as Arngeir continued to say the same phrase over and over again. Finally, fed up, unsure, and regretting ever setting out on this journey, Harold walked over and stood face to face with Arngeir. He braced his legs, bent his knees, and put his hands on his waist.

If they wanted him to shout, he was going to shout. “CAN YOU HELP ME AND MY WIFE MARTHA!!!!” He screamed it with everything inside of him. All of the confusion he had felt since leaving his home, all of the anger at the buckets on his head. He yelled it as loudly as he could, holding the syllables for as long as his lungs would allow.

Except for looking like a fool, nothing happened. No display of magic, no loud booming voice like he had heard when he had been “summoned”, nothing.

He dropped his hands to his side, loosened up his body, and waited for Arngeir to repeat his phrase once again.

Instead of a repeat however, “Dragonborn. It is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar.”


End file.
